The Painter

By
The air was frigid and full of salt.
Beneath my feet:
Sand.
Soft to the touch.
The scene before me sprawled endlessly.
Waves crashing.
Sun setting.

I never had seen something so picturesque, so perfect.
It had been designed faultlessly…
Yet for such a beautiful painting, where was the painter?
I was young.
I was mesmerized.

The scene was majestic.
Blues, pinks, dark oranges filled the dim sky.
They were beautiful, they are beautiful…
They seemed unimaginable…
The light glimmered off of the waves with brilliance.
Yet I couldn’t understand…
All the labor of man’s hand could not construct this…
I was young.
I was mesmerized.

It would not come to me,
The way this scene had come to be.
I still now am not sure,
How the sun, the skies, the beach endure…
I didn’t understand this concept.
This concept that man calls “god”
Yet I was certain.
This beauty was no façade.


This trip had been constructive in ways…
I learned that this “god” character might be real.
A painter with perpetual brushstrokes
That there might be meaning in everything I do….

The wind blew around me.
I felt the kiss of the lowering sun,
Before it fell into the water.
The scene surrounded me…
What else could it be,
Than God?

The scene was majestic.
Yet the sun had set.
The air was frigid and full of salt.
I was young.
I was mesmerized.
It was time to go home.





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